


Friendly Competition

by A_Diamond



Series: Camelot Drabble prompts [29]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Canon Era, Competence Kink, Competition, M/M, Mildly Dubious Magic Use, past Arthur/Others
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-17 01:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11265393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Diamond/pseuds/A_Diamond
Summary: There was no such thing as a friendly competition in Arthur’s books. Whether because he was the crown prince or just because he was Arthur, he hated to lose. Everything was a contest and Arthur needed to be the best.





	1. Friendly Competition

**Author's Note:**

> For the Camelot Drabble prompt: Competition

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur cajoled. “I just want to see if you’ve gotten any better. If you’re going to insist on accompanying me when I hunt, you ought to at least be a decent shot.”

“Why does it matter if all I do is scare off the game?”

Using Arthur’s own words against him was always a gamble. Sometimes it paid off in the form of Arthur laughing approvingly at Merlin’s gall and letting whatever he’d been after drop. Other times, and it appeared to be just such a time, it made him double down on his efforts.

“Then call it a friendly competition,” he said through a grin that bared his teeth.

Merlin’s stomach knotted, not entirely unpleasantly. There was no such thing as a  _ friendly competition _ in Arthur’s books. Whether because he was the crown prince or just because he was Arthur, he hated to lose. Everything was a contest and Arthur needed to be the best.

But he was, more or less, an honorable man. He threw around his royal authority to get his way on all sorts of things, but he adamantly believed in winning—or losing—on his own merit. He didn’t cheat or sulk if he lost; he just focused in and trained, made himself better until he could win.

It was arrogant and stubborn, but also impressively dedicated. The look Arthur got on his face when he was determined to do something was the cause of many of Merlin’s regrets; namely, the way he couldn’t ever seem to say no to Arthur’s challenges.

“What’s the bet?”

Arthur braced his crossbow and Merlin twitched away, despite being reasonably sure Arthur didn’t intend to skewer him. His jumpiness earned him a smirk before Arthur turned and sent a bolt thudding into a tree trunk about a hundred paces distant. Then he dropped the stave, reloaded, and spun, firing into another tree. And again, a third.

Swinging the bow up to rest against his shoulder, Arthur grinned at Merlin. “Those three trees, from this spot. Easy enough that even you shouldn’t be able to screw it up too badly, Merlin.”

There had to be a catch. Crossbows were the one weapon Merlin could actually use to some degree, and Arthur knew that. He might not’ve been as good a shot as the prince, but even he could hit a tree wider across than he was. Glaring suspiciously at Arthur, Merlin held his hand out for the bow. Arthur passed it over with the closest approximation of an obliging smile he’d ever managed and stepped back so Merlin could take his place.

The first shot vindicated Merlin’s expectations, as easy as he’d thought. “Ha!” He turned to Arthur in triumph, but his smug grin fell away when faced with Arthur’s condescending smirk.

“Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. Your form is all wrong, it’s disgraceful.”

“What? Did you—” Merlin looked at the tree, still with two bolts sticking out of the trunk, and back at Arthur. “But I hit it!”

“You got lucky,” Arthur scoffed. “Between your stance and your grip, it could just as well have gone off backwards through your throat.”

“Could not. Look, watch!”

Merlin reloaded the bow, and even if it wasn’t nearly as deftly done as Arthur had, he wasn’t about to take his own head off. But when he straightened, Arthur was in his space. Contoured along Merlin’s spine, Arthur grabbed an arm in each hand and guided them up like Merlin was a child.

“Brace your hand there, then to your shoulder. Now, set your sights just below mine...”

Distracting as Arthur’s proximity was, Merlin drew himself together and fired true. Or he would have, if Arthur hadn’t used his grip on Merlin to twitch his aim off-center at the last moment.

Merlin gaped. After all Merlin’s charitable thoughts about him, Arthur was cheating! Well, Merlin could cheat, too, and much better.

“See, I told you—”

Arthur broke off abruptly and tensed at Merlin’s back as Merlin magically guided his bolt into place and it thunked heavily into the wood. He hadn’t altered its course drastically, just curved it enough to hit its mark; it was a less obvious manipulation than things Arthur had missed before. Still, he made sure the coronal glow faded from his eyes before looking over his shoulder at Arthur’s delightfully dumbfounded expression.

“What did you tell me?” he taunted. His grin threatened to split his face in half.

Arthur cheek’s glowed a surprisingly soft pink before he put on an obviously fake scowl and turned his head away from Merlin’s, nodding towards the remaining tree. “Again.” He didn’t sound upset about Merlin thwarting him, though; if anything, his voice carried an edge of excitement. He didn’t let go, still flush to Merlin, and it was starting to feel like a very different sort of challenge.

This time, Merlin was waiting for the interference. Though his strength couldn’t stand up to Arthur’s when it came to actually resisting the much less subtle pull, he sent the bolt flying true and swift from the start. It shattered Arthur’s when it struck dead center.

All contact from Arthur dropped away as he ordered, voice hoarse and tense, “Retrieve that bolt.”

Fear washed away Merlin’s smugness instantly. He’d gone too far; he’d given himself away. All Merlin could do was drop the crossbow and obey, trying desperately to think of an excuse. He braced a hand against the bark, but before he could free the bolt, steps crunched through the brush behind him.

Eyes closed, he readied for the worst. He wouldn’t fight.

Arthur pressed against his back and his hand slipped down the front of Merlin’s trousers. He wasn’t hard, but Arthur fondling him got things going very quickly indeed, despite the shock of it.

“Sire?” It was half protest, half plea, and all groan. “What are you—”

“Just a friendly competition, Merlin,” Arthur murmured into his ear. “I bet that I can bring you off faster than you can me.”


	2. More-Than-Friendly Competition

Merlin held out as long as he could. He bit his lip and dug his fingers into the tree’s splintery bark and ran through every distraction he was able to conceive, short of magicking his prick numb. Because doing that would mean losing the rough feel of Arthur’s weathered hand on him and the slicker slide of his foreskin swallowing the tip of his prick then slipping back down off it, and no amount of pride would be worth that.

“Ar-Arthur,” he stuttered through shaky breaths. “What...?”

Arthur paused, which helped Merlin last but wasn’t what he wanted at all. At least his hand stayed around Merlin and his breath curled warmly against Merlin’s neck as he chuckled.

“I don’t know why you’re acting so surprised, Merlin. Surely you knew the stakes of our last bout.”

“Didn’t,” Merlin argued before he could stop himself. Another laugh made his prick twitch in Arthur’s grip.

“Not complaining,” he added hastily before Arthur could get any terrible ideas about stopping entirely. He thought he might cry if Arthur let go of him now, and that just wouldn’t do.

That was enough to satisfy Arthur, who thankfully got back to satisfying Merlin. He was close again in no time, helped along in just about equal measure by Arthur’s hand and Arthur’s mouth pressing filthy words to the sensitive spot just below his ear.

Filthy and demeaning things, but Merlin had figured he enjoyed that sort of thing a long time ago. It came up a lot, somehow, in Arthur’s service.

“Oh Merlin. Poor, slow, dull Merlin. Didn’t you ever wonder where I got to after my little wagers of skill with the knights? You nearly walked in on the aftermath of Leon besting me at quarterstaves.”

That had only been a few months ago. Merlin raked through his recollection of the event, but something, someone, someone’s hand, was occupying the majority of his focus. All he could remember was, “You went to the armory after and he was showing you how to grip the... staff...”

Even as he said it, he put together details he’d glossed over: Arthur’s flushed face and short breath, which he’d attributed to the exertion. Leon’s embarrassment, not from being witnessed correcting his prince after all. The state of Arthur’s trousers that had nothing to do with the fall he’d taken on the training grounds.

“Oh, something was being gripped.”

Merlin wasn’t supposed to be the oblivious one. He cursed himself for missing what had been right in front of him, but that small puzzle piece filled in something even larger that Arthur might not have intended.

Prince Arthur Pendragon, Champion of Camelot, got off on losing.

Oh, yes. He could work with that.

“Ready to spill over already, Merlin? I knew you were an innocent country boy, but I thought you’d have a little more stamina than this, if only from your own hand.”

Moaning as Arthur did something amazing with his fingertips at the tip just then, Merlin let the comment pass. His mind was spinning with plans that only just barely came together through the lust. Besides, the more Arthur mocked him now, the more humiliating it would be when he bested Arthur again by making him climax even quicker.

As soon as he knew what he was going to do, he stopped fighting. The build of his orgasm had been hard to resist, and giving in brought it crashing through him like a thousand spells cast at once, burning like magic but also not at all like magic.

Arthur tenderly insulted him through it, working Merlin still but gentling and slowing as he caught his breath back.

Recovered, Merlin turned out of Arthur’s arms to lean his back against the tree. He didn’t tuck himself away, not yet, just watched Arthur watching him.

“What’s the wager?”

Arthur stilled in surprise, tongue caught in the middle of wetting his lips, and pulled his eyes up to meet Merlin’s. It took longer than usual for him to pull his mouth into a mocking curl. “I already told you, idiot.”

“The stakes,” Merlin clarified. “When I make you spend more quickly and spectacularly than you ever have in your life, what does it win me?”

Nothing remained of Arthur’s superior sneer. “What, uh. What would you claim as forfeit?”

“You.” Pretty sure he heard Arthur whimper, he pressed on, stronger, “And if you win, the other way ’round. You can claim me, sire.”

It was quite honestly a win for Merlin either way, and from Arthur’s dazed, hungry look, he suspected the same was true on his part. But Merlin fully intended to win. While Arthur might consider his scheme cheating, he’d lost the right to protest; anyway, Merlin didn’t think he’d want to by the time he was done.

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it and wet his lips again before saying, “Yes.”

It was all the permission Merlin needed to pull Arthur to him by the shirt collar, spin the unresisting prince so that his back was to the tree instead of Merlin’s, and drop down before him. Uncaring about the twigs and damp leaves soiling his knees, he parted Arthur’s ties and freed a prick already sanguine and weeping for attention.

“Not a fair test if you—” Arthur started, half-heartedly at best.

Merlin ignored him; it didn’t matter either way. He was doing Arthur a favor, giving him both a better experience and a very, very flimsy excuse for what was about to be an incredibly short performance.

He took Arthur all the way down in a single move; Arthur could say what he wanted about country boys, but Merlin knew what he was doing. Not even gagging when Arthur jerked further down his throat, he lifted his hand to Arthur’s jewels and let him enjoy a brief fondle before he acted.

The magic he sent coursing through Arthur’s balls and out his prick brought Arthur to an instant, shouting climax. It tasted of victory.


End file.
